


The Tale of the Spit Bag Killer

by bubblesofjoy



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Funny, Halloween, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesofjoy/pseuds/bubblesofjoy
Summary: It's nearly Halloween, and Joan has a story to tell.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Spooky Tales From Wentworth





	The Tale of the Spit Bag Killer

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same A/U as my story, The Strongest Energy There Is, but stands on its own. It is many years in the future and Joan and Vera are living in an upscale assisted living complex. The entire story starts in the A/U some time after Joan and Vera had drinks together in Joan's office in season one.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Joan asked Vera, for what seemed the hundredth time.  
Vera sighed and tapped the back of her left hand three times, turned her arm over and looked at the screen image on her arm. It wasn’t a screen in her skin, of course, but rather an image from one of the many unseen projectors in the room. Vera tapped at the screen on her skin until she found Orchard Valley’s menu list for the week.  
“Meat loaf or roast chicken breast, green salad or steamed mixed vegetables, baked potato and pumpkin pie with vanilla ice cream or fresh fruit for dessert,” Vera read off of her arm.  
“What?” Joan replied. She was sitting in her chair, near Vera’s, and there was no real reason that she couldn’t hear Vera.  
“For Heaven’s sake, turn on your hearing aids if you’re going to ask me questions,” Vera responded, raising her voice considerably so that Joan could hear her.  
Joan tapped the side of her head where the bone was close to the ear, and she heard the faint signal from within both ears telling her that her invisible hearing aids had come on.  
“I don’t like using them, you know that,” Joan stated. “I like to listen to what I’m watching on my personal screen.”  
“And you know that I don’t like shouting,” was the response from the smaller woman.  
The two of them went quiet again, each staring at her own screen projected in front of her at a comfortable level. They often watched the same show in the evening, on the big screen at the end of the room, but in the afternoons they both preferred to do their own thing after a good nap. Vera often did crossword puzzles, or read a novel of her choice. Joan was often watching a documentary, or playing a game of chess against another person somewhere else in the world. Technology had made life much easier and more entertaining, and personal screens and internal speakers for each woman made it possible to sit close to each other, but not have to share the same activity.  
“What time is it?” Joan asked. There was no reason for her to do so, as she had multiple ways of finding out the time right where she was, but the query wasn’t about the time. Joan was letting Vera know, in her own way, that she had her hearing aids turned on for Vera’s sake.  
“Getting close to dinner,” Vera responded. She reached up and moved a stray lock of her striking white hair back to where it belonged.  
Joan watched the gesture and gave a slight smile. Both of them had aged a lot in the years they’d been together, yet Vera was still beautiful. Joan found beauty in the deep lines of Vera’s face, in that snow-white hair, and in her gestures and motion. She wasn’t as limber as she used to be, of course, but she was in very good shape for a woman in her late eighties.  
“What are you staring at?” Vera responded, also smiling. This was a game that the two of them had played for a long time. When Joan was Governor of Wentworth, she had caught Vera staring at her multiple times. When she pointed it out to Vera, there had always been an apology – until the day the two of them became a couple. That was when Vera said she stared at Joan because she couldn’t help it; the other woman’s beautiful face and figure were so compelling that she had to work not to stare. Joan had been so touched by that statement that she had told Vera the same, but the taller woman had more self control and had never actually been caught staring. After a few years, the whole thing became a special game, where one would stare until the other asked why. Joan smiled a bit more and said, “At the most beautiful woman in the world.” This was the reply they’d give each other.  
“I wish that were true,” Vera said, “but I don’t feel beautiful anymore.”  
Joan shook her head, “I don’t care how old you are, I will always see the beauty that you are. You are my Vera, and nothing will change how I feel about you.”  
The smaller woman flicked off her personal screen and looked her wife in the eye. “I love you too.”  
Joan flicked off her screen as well, then stood up. “I have to go to the bathroom.” She hardly needed to tell Vera that. Before they went down to the common area that included the dining room, both women would have to go the loo first.  
“Fine,” Vera said, “I’ll go next. Don’t forget your cane this time.”  
Joan mumbled something in response while Vera stood up, went to the hall closet and picked a warm, elegant deep blue sweater to wear to dinner. The dining room was never as warm as their apartment, and Vera always took something extra to keep her shoulders from getting cold.

When the two women made it to the dining room, they were happy to see that it was decorated for Halloween. The day of was a few days away, but the season had started, and it was always fun to see the decorations. There were ghosts, black cats, pumpkins and scarecrows dancing in the air above the tables. Each table had a hologram projection of a brightly lit Jack-o-lantern with a smiling, ragged-toothed face that looked entirely realistic.  
Despite having to use a cane, Joan always took the time to pull Vera’s chair out for her. Their table was shared with two other couples, women who Joan felt weren’t too annoying. The four ladies had already arrived, and greeted Vera and Joan cordially. They had long ago learned to not engage Joan in conversation but to wait until Joan seemed ready to talk. Joan tapped the table on the projected green dot near her knife and spoon, and busied herself with reading the menu that popped up. She already knew what the choices were, but this was her signal to others that she didn’t want to engage with them. The other women at the table chatted to each other and with Vera, ignoring Joan, as usual. It wasn’t long before a gentle chime sounded and all the women had their menus in front of them. They each touched the air where the items they wanted were written, and the information then headed to the kitchen.  
The small, blonde, charming women across from Vera smiled at her, and Vera smiled back. Slowly conversation grew. Joan would either join in, or pop something up in front of her to read. Tonight, surprising even Vera, she turned off the menu multi-screen and smiled at the other women at the table. Gillian, the blonde, smiled back, delighted that Joan would be part of the conversation that night. It was awkward when Joan was ignoring everyone.  
“Almost Halloween,” Joan said, and everyone at the table looked at her, most were startled at her even speaking at all.  
“Yes,” Maggie, the artificially auburn, plump woman nearest to Joan said. “Time for trick or treat, and scary movies.”  
“Yes, and I hope the children will come here this year,” Maggie’s wife, Hayley, replied.  
Joan said nothing. She didn’t appreciate "silly chatter" as was happening now, but she had joined the conversation on purpose.  
“I’m sure they will,” Joan said, and again all the women were focused on her. Something about her demanded attention, and it wasn’t just her height. She’d lost a bit of it with age, but she was still much taller than average. It gave her an edge on getting attention, but the truth was that she had never, ever forgotten how to be in command, in charge – she could always be The Governor whenever she chose to be. This night, she chose to be. “I enjoy seeing the children any time they come by. However, this is not the night they will appear. Instead, how would you like to hear a true, and very frightening, story?”  
Maggie nodded her head enthusiastically, her bobble earrings swinging back and forth. Vera smiled at Joan, not sure what was going on, but knowing that Joan wouldn’t be offering to tell a tale unless it was a good one. The other women nodded, shrugged, or said they would enjoy that, and only Gillian looked nervous.  
“Good. Then I shall tell the story of Smiles, the Spit Bag Killer,” Joan said. “This story is true, as Vera can attest. When I was working in corrections, I had a C.O. who went by the nickname of “Smiles.” She was a pretty woman, with long, blonde hair and a good figure. She was also not very trustworthy, as I found out that inmates paid her for various items or favours. She also became completely unsympathetic to the inmates. There was a riot, and she witnessed some terrible things. I won’t go into that in detail, just know that she went from appearing to be a worthwhile employee to being hardened, even nasty. I had to write her up for various improper treatment of inmates; inappropriate use of capsicum, wielding her baton when it was unnecessary and such.  
When the new manager came in and introduced the spit bags,” Joan said, her voice lowering and sounding a bit more menacing but also more captivating, “Smiles was thrilled. To tell the truth, I was not unhappy with that addition to our protective equipment. We needed the spit bags for the safety of the C.O.’s.”  
Maggie held up one hand in a gesture of interruption and asked, “Excuse me, but what exactly is a ‘spit bag’?”  
Joan held off from glaring at the woman. After all, she didn’t really expect these women to know the details of what went on in a prison. “Vera, would you like to explain?”  
The retired Deputy responded just as she would have back at Wentworth, more out of habit than anything else, “Yes, Governor. Spit bags were literally bags that were put over a prisoner’s head to prevent them from spitting on, or biting, the C.O.’s or anyone else. They had buckles in the back that made them pretty much impossible for the prisoner to undo, and despite the mesh over the eyes, I’m sure they became very stuffy, very quickly.”  
“I see,” Maggie said, looking down at the table. “Sounds awful, really.”  
“It wasn’t pleasant for the women who had to wear them, but it was much better than having our people spat on or bitten,” Vera replied, turning her head to look up at her wife.  
“Thank you, Vera,” Joan said, then lowered the tone of her voice to continue the story. “Smiles had a habit of using the spit bags more often than necessary. She’d argue that a prisoner had spat or bitten in the past, so she felt using the spit bag was a precautionary measure. As good as that sounds, it simply wasn’t allowed according the rules for how prisoners were to be treated. We weren’t to use something on a prisoner unless it was necessary at the time. For instance, spraying capsicum on a woman who wasn’t violent was a violation of prisoners’ rights. I had to discipline Smiles more than once. She was suspended more than once as well, but always managed to come back and tow the line long enough to stay employed - that is, until a group of women decided to take revenge on her for her hard ways.  
They cornered her one night, in the laundry room, after luring her there with the enticement of getting money from the prisoners in exchange for information or some such. She was taken off guard, so to speak, by a group of women who had been inappropriately spit bagged by her in the past. They grabbed her from behind, threw the bag over her face, disarmed her of her capsicum and baton, and left her screaming in the laundry room, unable to remove the spit bag. She clawed at it, to the point of tearing her nails. Her fingers even became bloody as she frantically shoved them into the buckles behind her head, but to no avail. No one answered her calls, no one came to her rescue. Somehow, she came to her senses enough to let herself out of the prison. She tried to drive home, but crashed the car on the way as she couldn’t see through the spit bag enough to drive. She survived, of course, and climbed out of the wreck, spit bag still in place, and managed to make her way into the city proper. There were several reports of a strange figure moving around the alleyways and empty streets in Melbourne that night, and from then on. We occasionally still hear of that figure even today. I say “figure”, as the confinement of the spit bag drove Smiles mad. She was never fully human again, in any real way.”  
“Ooooh!” Gillian cut in, “I remember hearing reports of some odd individual roaming the streets a few years back. It was on the news; people were worried as this person out there was – “  
Joan gave Gillian a glare that was mean to silence anyone in her sight. It worked. She smiled a bit, then went back to using that low, enthralling voice of hers, “Yes. I’m sure you diD. The part of the story that no one really knows, the part I found out because I had to know where my C.O. had disappeared to, is what is particularly disquieting. You see, I knew that she had crashed her car going home, but not why. No one said anything, of course, as prisoners would have considered telling any C.O. what had happened that night as lagging, and they never lagged. Well, almost never.  
I had to go to the crash site and investigate, since that was the last place that Smiles had been. There was no evidence of what had happened beyond the stink of panic – yes, I could smell that.”  
Vera nodded at this point, well aware that Joan had superior senses. People who are very sensitive often do. It isn't a coincidence that the words have the same root. Joan was a very sensitive, emotionally delicate person in many ways, but only Vera knew that. The other women at the table took Vera’s nod to mean that Joan wasn’t exaggerating, and looked back at Joan with some concern.  
“How…how did you find out where she was?” Maggie said, her voice nearly a whisper.  
“I had a paid private detective try to find her. He told me of the strange figure that had been seen because the reports described the figure as female and wearing a uniform. The figure also had a bag of some sort over her head. There was no question in my mind that it was Smiles. I took the information from the detective and looked over all the reports to find where she had been seen. They all narrowed down to an area near where the woman had lived, at least at first. Then she seemed to be roaming further and further afield. But there was a pattern, and I was able to discern it to the point where I knew how to find her that night. My detective had done a good job, but he wasn’t able to see what I had seen.  
I drove to the place where I expected to see Smiles appear. It was an alleyway in the industrial part of town, an alleyway that had no exit. I waited in my car, parked against the brick wall of some old warehouse, sure that I would see Smiles that night.  
I was right: she entered the alleyway when I expected her to. I first saw her in my rear-view mirror, lurching down the alley, arms still flailing this way and that, trying to undo the spit bag’s locks. She limped as well, one leg bent at an odd angle. I assume it was damage from the crash. She was filthy, as soon as I got out of my car I could smell the filth of sweat, fear, homelessness and, other, less pleasant things. Still, the smell of blood was the strongest. When she drew closer to me, I could see that her finger tips were worn nearly to the bone, most had lost their nails. When she drew even closer, I could see through the mesh of the spit bag, and her eyes were wild, terrified, and completely inhuman. There was no spark of recognition. She had no idea who I was. She screamed in the bag, her voice muffled, but loud and screeching nonetheless.”  
“How…how had she survived for all that time?” Gillian broke in.  
“It’s hard to know,” Joan continued, “but she could have gotten water through the mesh of the spit bag. It had only been a couple of days since she had crashed her car, so she wouldn’t have needed food yet. When I was very near her, looking into her eyes, she took her hands from behind her head and wrapped them around my throat.”  
Hayley, all grey curls and odd angles, let out a gasp and said, “Oh no! What did you do?” with a real tremor in her voice.  
“I fought back. I am strong now, and was much stronger then. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to pry her bloody fingers off of me. When I did, she tried to run away. I was able to chase her, tackle her to the ground and hold her facing down. She struggled, and I reassured her that I wanted to help her get the spit bag off of her head. She wouldn’t hold still, but I still managed to undo the buckles and pull the bag off of her. When I did, she lifted up her head as much as she could in that position and screamed. She managed to free one arm and grabbed for the bag, picking it up off the ground and held onto it as though it was a lifeline. She started struggling harder, and I had to knock her out. I called the police, and held Smiles down until they arrived.  
Before one of the two officers could handcuff her, she regained consciousness. One of the men tried to take the spit bag out of her hands, but she would have none of it. She held it with her teeth and her bony claws, for that was all that was left of her finger tips. She lunged at one of the officers, knocking him to the ground. The other officer grabbed his taser and hit her with it. Her body lurched in place, fell to the ground, and…other smells were added to the scene. She didn’t move again, at least, not her physical body. The strain of all the events had been too much. She died there on the spot. The strange thing is, though, that I swear I saw her stand up when the ambulance attendants arrived and put her lifeless body on the gurney. It seemed that part of her was still conscious, still capable of movement – but that was not possible. I don’t believe in an after life, and I don’t believe in ghosts. Yet ‘ghost’ is the only word I have to describe what I saw. The body of Smiles was put in the ambulance, but I saw her depart down the alley, spit bag back on her head!”  
“Not possible,” Maggie said, repeating Joan's own words, shook her head and sat back to cross her arms.  
Joan looked at her, and nodded, “I agree. As I said, I don’t believe in ghosts. I think the best explanation is that my mind must have played tricks on me. That does not, however, explain the subsequent reports from people who saw the same figure as before: a woman in a uniform, with a bag of some sort over her head. There is still the odd report of her being seen in the alleyways or darkened streets of our city late at night. Perhaps people like to exaggerate and tell stories to one another that explain the sightings. Regardless, nothing explains the rest of the story. Those who see the phantom, as that’s what she would be, I suppose, are known to have died. The story is that the figure is now able to remove the spit bag and throw it over the head of her victim. That person is then trapped within, until they die from causes unknown; although that is just another way of saying ‘died of fear’. Smiles then roams the streets once again, free of the spit bag, acting inhuman – there have even been reports of people seeing Smiles as herself at local gambling venues where she was known to spend time. Yet, as soon as her victim dies, the bag reappears on her head, and she is back to being an insane monster, searching for another victim so that she can be free of the spit bag for a short time yet again.”  
Everyone at the table was silent. Even the nearby tables were quiet. Everyone who could hear it had been listening to Joan’s story. Marcus Daniels, at the next table, huffed a bit, then said, “That’s preposterous.”  
Joan nodded at Marcus, then loud enough for everyone at the tables nearby to hear, said, “Of course it is. It can only be urban legend. There is no possible way for Smiles to have survived, nor for her to haunt others, or kill anyone. The entire thing should have ended with the ambulance taking her body away. How it grew out of proportion to the absurd story that it has become is beyond me. Yet, it has, and the story can be seen over and over again on social media, if one goes looking for it.”  
“I think I’ve heard it before,” Gillian said, a touch of fear creeping into her tone.  
“No doubt,” Joan replied.  
“How did you manage to hold Smiles down until the police came? Maybe you let her get away?” Maggie said, her brain working hard to explain the story she had heard.  
Joan was about to respond when Vera cut in: “Don’t be ridiculous. After all our time working in prisons, Joan and I know how to keep someone captive for an extended length of time.”  
“Thank you, Vera,” Joan said. Then, “She couldn’t escape; she was unconscious.”  
“Oh, right,” Maggie responded. “But how could –“  
The food arrived, and the story telling and questions stopped short. The people at the nearby tables, as well as Vera and Joan’s own table, engaged in the usual babble of conversation. However, the topic did seem to be about nothing but the story of Smiles, the Spit Bag Killer.”

Late in the evening, when Joan and Vera were watching a new series based on the years of horror between 2020 and 2024, the sound of an old-fashioned telephone ring broke their concentration. Vera tapped her wrist, looked at the message, then closed the screen on her arm with another set of taps.  
Joan paused the show with a gesture in the air in front of her, then said, “Who was that?”  
“Linda. She wants to know if we are going to her eighty-third birthday dinner on Saturday. I didn’t answer as I don’t know yet what we’ve decided.”  
“I think I’d prefer to keep our date night on Saturday. After all, we’ve only ever been friends with her off and on. It seems too much time and effort, not to mention the postponing of our special night, to go the birthday celebration of Linda ‘Smiles’ Miles.”  
“I agree,” Vera responded, smiling, happy with Joan’s decision.  
Joan put their show back on, but Vera continued to look at the tall woman with the silver hair.  
“What are you staring at?” Joan said, more than asked.  
“Just the most beautiful woman in the world,” Vera responded, “the one I love, and the one who can weave the most ridiculous stories I’ve ever heard.”  
“Halloween is the time for such stories,” Joan replied, then reached out her hand to take the hand of the beautiful, smaller woman sitting in her own easy chair, right next to Joan herself.

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea last week, typed this up in one afternoon and edited it today (two days before Halloween 2020). I hope there weren't too many errors to take you out of the story. I also hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
